Twice as Dead

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  “Al keeps to himself. Seems nice enough, but he’s been here awhile and never says much to anyone.” She looked back into her apartment. “I gotta go. My husband will be home soon, and dinner’s not ready.”

  She made no move to go inside, making me think she was worried I’d break into apartment 7 if she turned her back on me. She was right to worry. Had I been able to jimmy the door open, I’d have been inside in a New York minute.

  I started for the stairs. When I passed the woman, she backed up into her apartment and let the screen door shut between us.

  “Thanks anyway,” I told her. “I guess I’ll have to come back.”

  “No luck, I see,” Greg said as soon as I was back in the van. “By the way, nice job improvising the money thing.”

  “Yeah, otherwise she’d want to take the box for sure.” I put the flyers down on the floor and buckled up. “His apartment has furniture in it but has an abandoned look, like no one’s been home in a while. There were a couple of plants near the front window, both turning brown.”

  “No sign of disturbance or of anyone going through the place?”

  “I could only see the living room and part of the dining area, but it looked neat as a pin.”

  Greg pulled away from the curb. “Punch up the address for Roslyn Stevens. Let’s go see if she’s a long-lost cousin.”

  Evening rush hour was in full swing as we made our way out of Santa Ana, but Greg knew his way to Long Beach, where Roslyn Stevens lived, via surface streets. His traffic savvy kept us off the packed freeway. Long Beach was north of Seal Beach. The plan was to circle back home after we’d checked out Roslyn’s place. My own personal plan was to suggest to Greg we pick up dinner at our favorite Chinese restaurant on the way home. I didn’t think it would be a problem, especially considering the symphony coming from his growling stomach. I was feeling a bit peckish myself, especially after smelling the dinner Alfred’s neighbor had been fixing.

  Roslyn Stevens lived in a duplex on a small, quiet street—or at least she had lived there. The place looked even more abandoned than Alfred’s apartment. A peek in the window showed me it was empty except for a ladder and painting paraphernalia. A drop cloth covered the floor of the living room. Walking around to the back, I found a back door with a window. I cupped my hands around my eyes and pressed my nose against the small window to study the kitchen. It was also empty, except for major appliances, and looked freshly painted. Given the current state of Alfred Nunez, I began to worry that Roslyn was also dead. Hopefully, she’d hit the road before it came down to that.

  “You interested in the place?”

  I jumped at the sound of the voice and placed a hand over my thumping heart. Turning, I discovered a pudgy, middle-aged African-American man with salt-and-pepper hair. He was dressed in a white tank tee shirt and knee-length blue plaid shorts. On his feet were flip-flops. He stood watching me from the stoop of the other half of the duplex. In his hand was a paper napkin. He finished chewing whatever was in his mouth and swiped at his lips with the napkin while I composed myself. Everyone seemed to be having dinner except me.

  “You interested?” he asked again when I remained as silent and thick as a stump. “It’s a large two bedroom, one bath. Twelve hundred dollars—first and last due on move-in. No pets.”

  I moved away from the window. “Actually, I was looking for Roslyn Stevens. Doesn’t she live here?”

  “Why you asking?” The man stepped off the stoop and took a step toward me.

  I didn’t think the trick with the flyers would work with this guy. Besides, I’d left them in the van.

  “My name is Stevens. I’m working on our family tree. I was given her name and address as a possible relative.”

  The man laughed. “Yeah, you look a whole lot like Roslyn.”

  “I know Roslyn is African-American, but that doesn’t mean we’re not related. Besides, my husband is the Stevens in the family.”

  As if on cue, I heard Greg call to me. “Sweetheart, you back here?”

  A few seconds later, Greg came wheeling down the driveway at the side of the building. The drive ended just past where I was standing at a small detached carport. Wainwright trotted beside him.

  When he saw me, Greg beamed. “There you are. Did you find Roslyn Stevens?” He looked up at the man, putting on the most innocent, open face I’d ever seen. “Hello.”

  In the few years we’ve been married, I have marveled at Greg’s natural talent for getting into character at the drop of a hat. It was a form of duplicity, yes, but not so much that I was worried. Since he was determined to join me in my nosiness, it often came in handy. I’d noticed that people felt less threatened by a guy in a wheelchair. Although, truth be told, Greg could take on most able-bodied men and win, as long as they weren’t running.

  I walked over to Greg. “It looks like she might have moved, honey. Sorry.”

  My husband looked up at the man, who was now studying us—the middle-aged fat woman and the disabled guy with the family pet—trying to make up his mind if we were on the level. He looked in favor of believing us. And why not? To him, we probably looked not only harmless but naïve.

  “Do you know where Roslyn moved?” Greg asked the guy.

  “Not really.” The man took another step closer to us. From his relaxed posture, it looked like he was believing our story.

  “Are you the landlord?” Greg petted Wainwright while he talked. Mr. Innocent himself.

  The man nodded. “Yes. My wife and I own this building and the one across the street. Around the first, Roslyn stopped by to pay her rent and told us she had to move suddenly—something about a new job, or it could have been a job transfer. She paid through the end of June anyway, even without our asking. We offered to keep the place for her until the end of the month, but she said she was moving permanently.”

  I shifted my weight. Even though it was early evening, it was still hot outside. I felt like I was melting from the inside out, with only my skin holding my liquid center intact. “What kind of work did Roslyn do?”

  “Not real sure, but I know she mostly worked from home. Wife always thought it had something to do with computers.”

  I prodded a little more. “Did she live here long?”

  “About four years. Very good tenant, quiet and polite. We were sorry to lose her.”

  Greg fidgeted with his wheels, rolling them back and forth while he digested the information. “Did she say if the new job was out of town? I’d really like to meet her.”

  “Can’t say exactly,” the man answered. “She and a friend packed up a U-Haul one night and took off.”

  I wished I had the photo Clarice had given me to show the man, but I’d left it in the van in my bag. As if reading my mind, Greg pulled it from his shirt pocket like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. I could only stare in wonder.

  “Was her friend one of these people?” He held the photo out toward the man. “This photo was given to me by another friend—the one who thinks I may have a connection to Roslyn, maybe through marriage or something.”

  The landlord took the photo and studied it. “Yeah, that’s him.” He stabbed a finger at a guy standing on the edge of the group—Scott Johnson. “Don’t know his name though.” He handed the photo back to Greg.

  I looked over Greg’s shoulder at the photo. Scott Johnson was white, of average height, and slightly built. The top of his head was bald, his remaining hair hanging down gray and stringy like scraggly fringe at the bottom of an old-fashioned lampshade. He stood on the edge of the group with an air of reluctance, his hands jammed into the pockets of his pants. His smile looked forced, a nerd invited by mistake to a party thrown by cool kids.

  I looked back up at the landlord. “This was the man who helped Roslyn move?”

  He nodded. “Sure was. Saw him here from time to time. More often in the past month or so.”

  “Was he Roslyn’s boyfriend?” asked Greg.

  “That’s what I thought, even thou
gh a lovely woman like Roslyn could have done better, in my opinion.” The man chuckled. “But my wife is positive they weren’t involved that way. She said they didn’t have chemistry.” He looked at Greg, shrugging and grinning in sync. “Women, huh?” Greg nodded and laughed, joining him in the manly inside joke.

  I didn’t think it was funny. I thought the observation was important. “Why did your wife think that?”

  The man turned his eyes in my direction and shrugged again, but this time his shoulders moved with confusion rather than mirth.

  “Because they never touched,” came a voice from behind him.

  We all turned in the direction of the landlord’s back door to see a tall, thin woman with straightened black hair watching us from the stoop. She studied us with almond-shaped eyes, a wooden spoon in her hand. She turned to her husband. “Gerald, your dinner’s getting cold.”

  Gerald turned back to us. “This is my wife. By the way, we’re the Marshalls. That’s Amy. My name’s Gerald.”

  “We’re the Stevens. That’s my wife Odelia, and I’m Greg.”

  I took a step forward, but a steely look from the woman stopped me in my tracks. “We’re looking for Roslyn Stevens,” I said, holding my ground but not advancing. Amy Marshall had obviously graduated from the same school of intimidation as Zee.

  “No need for a rerun. I heard everything through the kitchen window.”

  Greg bravely rolled a foot closer. Wainwright stayed, his butt planted to the ground in the sit position, as he had been ordered. Once given an order, the well-trained animal wouldn’t budge until told by one of us he could. It was nice to know someone in our family had some discipline.

  “So,” Greg began, “you don’t think Roslyn and this guy were romantically involved?”

  Amy shook her head. “I seriously doubt it. They might have worked together, but they didn’t play together.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Greg ventured.

  “Because they never touched,” she repeated. When the two men gave her blank stares, Amy looked from Greg to me, settling her stern eyes on mine, searching for someone who might understand her reasoning. More to the point, she was searching for signs of intelligent life. I swallowed, hoping I wouldn’t disappoint her.

  “She means,” I said, moving up beside Greg, “that there wasn’t a sense of intimacy between them.”

  Amy nodded, pleased as a teacher when the slow kid wins the spelling bee. “Not once did I see Roslyn and that man touch. Couples do that unless they’re on the outs with each other.” She tossed her chin in our direction. “I’ve been watching. You two can’t keep your hands off each other. I’d bet a homemade peach cobbler that you’ve been married less than five years.”

  I looked down at my hand resting on Greg’s shoulder. Without thinking, he’d covered it with one of his. Amy hadn’t missed a thing. She’d make a formidable witness if ever called to testify.

  “It will be four years this November,” Greg answered for the two of us. He flashed her one of his sexy smiles. “Too bad, too, because I love homemade peach cobbler.”

  Amy melted visibly around the edges, and it wasn’t from the heat. Maybe if Greg smiled again, we’d get the cobbler anyway.

  “So,” I asked, pushing homemade peach cobbler out of my mind, “who do you think this man was?”

  “I was never sure.” Amy wiped the hand not holding the spoon on her apron. “I asked her once, but Roslyn never said. I’d say he was someone she worked with, maybe even a boss or supervisor. They were comfortable with each other but not overly familiar. And Roslyn definitely deferred to him.”

  I liked Amy and Gerald Marshall. They seemed like honest and upfront people. But with Amy’s uncanny insight, I didn’t want to linger lest she see through our bullshit. I gave Greg’s shoulder a slight squeeze and removed my hand. “Thank you so much for your time, folks. We should let you get back to your dinner.”

  Following my lead, Greg rolled closer to Gerald, holding out his right hand. “Thanks a lot. It was a pleasure meeting you both.”

  Gerald took the offered hand and shook it. “If you catch up with Roslyn, ask her to call us. We still have a security deposit to return to her.”

  “Will do,” Greg assured him. “And if you come across her, please give her this.” Greg reached into his pocket and brought out a business card for Ocean Breeze Graphics. It was a bold and iffy move. I wasn’t sure I wanted his contact information out there, but if Amy was suspicious about our intentions, at least she’d see our last name really was Stevens.

  “So, what do you think?” I asked Greg as soon as we were seated in the van. Wainwright was hunkered down in the back, busily lapping up water from his portable bowl. Greg and I were sipping from our water bottles.

  Greg glanced at me. “I think you should call Ming’s and order dinner. We can pick it up on our way home.”

  “You read my mind, honey, but it’s not exactly what I expected you to say.”

  He favored me with one of his killer smiles. “Sorry, but my stomach interrupted my other thoughts.”

  Before prodding him further, I called our favorite Chinese restaurant and ordered dinner for pick-up in twenty minutes, about the time I calculated we’d be in that area.

  “Okay.” I closed my phone. “Your stomach’s been taken care of. So, what’s your other gut telling you?”

  “Roslyn’s on the run, and that guy helped her get out of Dodge the same time he hit the road. They might even be together.”

  “Safety in numbers?”

  “Could be.”

  “That was at least two weeks ago. Do you think Alfred and Shirley received a heads-up and ignored the warning, or that Roslyn and Scott were the only ones who received a chance to clear out?”

  Greg handed me the photo Gerald had returned to him. “Could be that guy in the photo—that Scott fellow—might have learned something and decided to save Roslyn. Sounds like they hung out together. At least the Marshalls recall seeing him around from time to time.”

  Greg started up the van and punched up an address on the GPS. “It looks like Scott Johnson’s place is fairly close and in the direction we’d be heading anyway. Let’s check it out, though I think we’ll find it abandoned like the others.” He pulled away from the curb.

  “What I’d really like to do,” I said as the van moved through the streets, “is go through Shirley Pearson’s home. But I’m sure the cops have been through it top to bottom.”

  My husband glanced over at me. “Not to mention you’d probably never get near it, considering she was a murder victim. It’s not like you could just saunter up to it like you did Alfred’s place.”

  The address for Scott Johnson was a small terra-cotta bungalow on a street similar to Roslyn’s. However, it didn’t look abandoned. Two small kids played on the postage-stamp-sized lawn under the supervision of a young woman. I hopped out of the car and approached her. Greg kept the engine running. In under two minutes, I was back in the van.

  “She said they moved in at the beginning of June.” I fastened my seat belt. “They rented the place from some management company.”

  Without a word, Greg got the van rolling again.

  I huffed in frustration. “I really want to have a heart-to-heart chat with Clarice, but I have no idea how to reach her.”

  “Something tells me that once she learns of Alfred’s death, she’ll show up.” Greg cut his eyes from the road to me briefly.

  “You think she knows yet? Dev didn’t think she did.”

  “Hard to say. Last she knew, Alfred was missing, and unless she’s listed on his contact information, which I doubt, why would anyone tell her?”

  Holding up an index finger, I stopped that thought from going further. “Contact information.” I paused just long enough to gather my thoughts into a loose bundle. “Alfred Nunez was living a new life. He would hardly have put Joan or her mother down as his contact information. I wonder who was listed?”

  “Didn’t Joan tell you
he had no ID when they found him? That’s why the police used his fingerprints to find his real identity.”

  “Yes. And without ID, they wouldn’t know his new name or any recent contact information.” I paused, remembering lunch with Dev. “I gave Dev Alfred’s new name at lunch.”

  Greg was quiet a minute, then said, “Do you regret giving Dev that information?”

  I looked out the window, letting my eyes graze on buildings and cars that whizzed by like a film on fastforward. “No, I don’t, Greg. I still believe I did the right thing. It’s Dev’s job to find the killer, not ours. As it was, I withheld the address in Santa Ana.”

  “You did do the right thing, Odelia. And I’m sure by now the police have the address. You just gave us a head start before the cops swarmed all over the place.”

  We pulled into the parking lot of the Chinese restaurant. I grabbed my wallet and prepared to hop out to claim our food. “Although now, I’m not sure how to find out more about Alfred’s secret life. We don’t know anything about him other than where he lived. He’s still just a guy who faked his death for insurance money, providing he got some of that money. And that apartment didn’t look like it belonged to someone with a lot of cash.”

  “If his wife did share any of that money with him, then it would be evidence of fraudulent intent on both their parts.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. “Poor Joan. I hope for her sake her mother wasn’t involved in her father’s disappearance.”

  I opened the door and put my feet to the pavement. “I’d really like to talk to Clarice again.” I looked at the door to the restaurant, then back at Greg. “Sure wish we had some sort of magic lamp to conjure Clarice up when we needed her, but she wouldn’t even give me her new identity.”

  “Clarice is going to have to start trusting you at some point if she wants your help.”

  I held the van door open, letting the air conditioning blow out into the hot evening air while I waited for him to finish his thought.

  “Are we helping Joan find out about her father,” Greg continued, “or are we helping Clarice locate Alfred, Scott, and Roslyn? Seems like we’re doing both now.”